Two huge gilt doors stood at the end of the corridor. Music and conversation drifted from beyond. As the footmen moved to the doors and opened them for him, Lukács lifted a hand to the pewter mask on his face. The metal was cold beneath his touch. Taking a breath, he stepped into the palace ballroom, utterly unprepared for the splendour that greeted him.
Hanging from brackets at least sixty feet above the floor, three enormous chandeliers dominated the room, each festooned with scores of burning candles. So intricate and delicate was the white-golden stucco that adorned the ceiling that Lukács found it difficult to believe anyone capable of producing such beauty. Along the east wing of the room, several arched recesses housed windows that stretched forty feet in height, with views down to the mighty Danube and to Pest on the far bank. Frescos adorned the long wall opposite the windows, and all along its length stood gilt chairs upholstered in red velvet.
A string ensemble played on a stage at the far end of the ballroom. Across the main floor, young men – perhaps a hundred of them – stood together in groups. All of them wore the same formal attire as Lukács, and all of their faces were hidden behind individually crafted pewter masks. They conversed loudly, holding thin-stemmed champagne flutes and long cigars.
While the young hosszú élet men were an impressive sight, the ladies stole the main focus of Lukács’s attention. Like so many tropical birds, their finery bewitched him. Their dresses were a kaleidoscope of colours and fabrics. Bustles were de rigueur, as were plunging necklines and short off-the-shoulder sleeves that would have scandalised his father. There was uniformity too in the style of their hair: scooped up from each side of the face, into either a high knot or a cluster of ringlets. Instead of masks, they wore lace veils that covered their faces just below the eyes. Mirroring their male counterparts, they chattered in small clusters. Lukács saw several in the nearest group break off from their conversation to examine him, and he felt a pleasurable prickling of his skin as their eyes flashed over him.
Intercepting a waiter bearing a tray of champagne flutes, he helped himself to a glass, selected the nearest group of young men and walked into their midst. Immediately they widened the circle to accommodate him. One by one they came forward to shake his hand. He received no named introductions, but he had been advised to expect that.
As each young man spoke to him, he watched the eyes behind their mask. He was used to seeing the striations of green and indigo in his father’s eyes, but now he saw a multitude of variations: flecks of silver, swirls of purple, vivid tiger stripes of orange. Grimly, he noted their looks of confusion as they studied him. Did they wonder if an impostor lurked in their midst? Or simply a weakling? The constraints of protocol prevented anyone from challenging him, but he saw several of them exchange questioning glances.
As the champagne flowed, the conversation flowed with it, moving from the exploits of the king to the latest on the unification of Buda and Pest into a single metropolis. Lukács found it difficult to contribute at first, but as glasses were refilled and everyone began to relax, the talk turned to the night’s proceedings and, more pointedly, to the other half of the room’s occupants. Lukács noticed that some of his group had already started to drift away to initiate conversations, and it was not long before he found himself standing alone in the arch of one of the huge windows. Turning his back on the reception, he gazed down at the Danube below. Darkness had fallen. The great river was a wide strip of black, flickering with the reflected lights of Pest. Beyond the city, somewhere out there, lay Gödöllö, his home, his bed. He wondered what Jani and Izsák were doing. He wondered if they thought of him.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Startled, Lukács spun around. Close to his elbow, a girl almost his height studied him with a critical eye. He noticed a smirk on her lips beneath the translucent lace of her veil. Instinctively, he backed into the recess, away from the lights of the chandeliers.
‘Ah, a shy one.’ The smirk widened. ‘Don’t worry. I shan’t bite. I saw you come in. I thought you might have introduced yourself by now but you’ve been standing there with that dull group of boys all evening. And now you’re all alone. You haven’t even talked to any of us.’
‘I hadn’t realised I was being observed.’ He winced; it had been a clumsy thing to say. Quickly, he added, ‘You’re right. It is a magnificent view.’
She glanced out of the window and Lukács used the opportunity to examine her. He could not say that she was pretty – or even charming – but there was something in her brash confidence, in her obvious ripeness, that interested him.
‘Is this your first time at the palace?’ she asked.
‘Yes. And you?’
‘Gods, no. My father’s an ambassador.’ She laughed. ‘Am I allowed to say that? Perhaps not. Indeed, certainly not. But now I have and there is little to be done. All this secrecy, it’s just a bit of theatre, wouldn’t you say? I mean we’re all hosszú életek.
‘I’ve accompanied my father here many times. Official engagements. Impossibly stuffy, to tell you the truth. Nothing at all like this.’ With a gloved hand she touched his arm. ‘Come over into the light. I can hardly see you, standing in the shadows like that.’
He felt his heart lurch. This was it. A first approach. The moment for which his father had coached him, and his older brother had taunted him, for so long. He knew the etiquette, knew he was being flattered, knew that outside of the végzet this girl doubtless moved in far higher social circles. Yet that was the point of the végzet, was it not? A levelling ground that allowed all hosszú életek to mingle. A tradition, as she had indicated, and one that stretched back hundreds of years. He did not find her attractive but that was not the point. Tonight was for first introductions. It would only be at the next gathering that the more intricate sexual fencing would begin.
‘Would you not wish to admire the view a while longer?’ he asked.
‘Oh, nonsense with the view. The Danube will be there in the morning. It’ll be there a thousand years from now.’ She lifted a pointed chin and challenged him. ‘Come out with me.’
Inclining his head, heart accelerating, he followed her out of the alcove and into the light. As they passed along the wall, the girl paused underneath a gilt wall ornament that held a branch of candles. She turned to him, reached a finger up to his face and tilted his head towards her.
Breathless, Lukács looked into her eyes. Around the black of her pupils, her irises were a startling cornflower blue. As he watched, he noticed other colours begin to emerge. Whorls of magenta, shooting lines of gold. He felt blood begin to fizz through his arteries. His chest swelled with anticipation.
But even as he drank her in, the display faded. Still transfixed by what he had seen, Lukács did not notice the disdain on her face until she asked, ‘What’s wrong with you? Your eyes. They’re . . . lifeless.’
He felt his face reddening. ‘It’s a . . . a birth defect. The rest of me—’
‘You’re not even hosszú élet!’
‘Yes, I am. Of course I am. It’s just that my eyes . . . my eyes never took. No one knows why. But the rest . . .’ He floundered.
‘I heard a rumour we had a freak in our midst,’ she hissed. ‘I never imagined I’d be tasteless enough to pick him.’ The girl turned away, searching for friendly faces in the crowd.
Lukács’s temper flared. He grabbed her by the arm and twisted her to face him. ‘How tasteless of me to attract the only filthy kurvá in the palace.’
The girl curled back her lip, revealing a row of white teeth. ‘Manners to match your deformity, I see. Let go of my arm.’
Wanting to punish her, he tightened his grip. Beneath his fingers he felt the muscles of her arm contract and harden, fighting his pressure.
Lukács gritted his teeth and squeezed, wanting to hurt her now, willing his fingers to force themselves into her flesh. He snarl
ed when he saw pain register on her face. ‘Filthy kurvák should keep their opinions to themselves,’ he whispered, guiding her back towards the recess.
An ugly blotch of red had appeared at her throat. She took an unwilling step with him into the arch. ‘I’ll scream.’
‘Make it a good one.’ He knew she would not cry out, knew she would do almost anything to avoid drawing attention to their sordid little confrontation, even if that meant clenching her teeth and tolerating the pain he was inflicting. He increased the pressure on her arm. She gasped, sucking the lace veil taut against her lips, and then a hand appeared on Lukács’s shoulder.
Sharp fingers sank into him. The pain was immediate and brutal.
‘Enough of this. Let go of her this instant.’
Lukács twisted around. Three men, ancient and lean, had gathered behind him. Each wore a styled grey wig and navy frock coat. None of them wore masks.
The oldest of the three clutched his shoulder. Lines of age mapped the man’s face, a network of creases spreading out from his mouth as his lips pressed together. The skin of his throat sagged like a ruined net, but his eyes were clear, strong, furious. His fingers clenched and Lukács suppressed a curse.
The elder’s voice was a dangerous whisper. ‘Remove your hand from the lady’s arm.’
Holding on to her a moment longer, a futile gesture of defiance, Lukács relinquished his grip and the girl shrank away from him. Her eyes had lost their scornful expression. She watched him now with fear. Free, she took a few uncertain steps backwards and lost herself in the crowd.
‘I can imagine the gist of your encounter,’ the elder continued, removing his hand from Lukács’s shoulder.’ That’s no excuse for your behaviour. There is never any excuse for that kind of behaviour. You bring shame on your family with your actions. I know who you are. I know that you face some challenges. Your father is a good man, an excellent man. He is the only reason I do not ask these gentlemen to march you down to the river and hurl you in. We’ll overlook this. Once. Do you understand me?’
Lukács’s temper still burned. He glared, but when the old man glared back, Lukács glimpsed something in those eyes that terrified him. His palms grew slick, and he felt his heart gallop in his chest. He adopted a look of contrition. ‘Yes. Completely.’
‘I suggest you take some air. It is not too late to redeem yourself tonight. Thankfully there was little audience to witness your performance. We shall talk to the girl. Now go. Outside. The fresh air will bring you back to your senses.’
‘Thank you, sir. I will.’
Striding across the floor of the ballroom, Lukács wanted to tear the mask from his face and mop away the sweat. He fought the impulse. Between the gilt doors he walked, along the corridor of kings, down the grand staircase and out into the night air beyond.
The girl’s reaction had hurt, but he had expected it. Jani, with his sarcasm, had at least prepared him. What puzzled him, what interested him, was the arousal he had felt as he dug his fingers into her flesh.
How many hours had passed? How much had he drunk? Lukács squinted at the tankard on the scarred wooden table before him. The watch his father had given him nestled inside his waistcoat pocket, but even as inebriated as he was, he knew better than to take out a valuable object like that in a place such as this. The tavern was filled with punters: their noise and their stink and their smoke.
Across the table sat his two drinking partners. Márkus, that was the first one’s name. Brash, opinionated, the young man’s debauched humour had been making Lukács laugh for over an hour. Márkus’s lady friend Krisztina perched next to him. She was pretty, he thought. In fact, a better word was sexual. She had an easy, suggestive manner, the cut of her dress accentuating the slimness of her hips and the fullness of her breasts. Her rich blond hair was tucked under a white cap.
After leaving the palace for his prescribed fresh air he had, on a whim, continued down to the river. He discovered Márkus and Krisztina larking about on the bank. They had both been drinking and, after running out of money at the tavern, had decided to take a stroll. Lukács was drunk for the first time in his life and wanted to carry on drinking. He also had a purse of money. Márkus and Krisztina needed little encouragement to help him spend it. While they initially showed surprise that someone so obviously high-born would choose to share their company, their determination to get drunk outweighed any reservations.
Lukács did not have to manoeuvre through any political debate with these two. The conversation was degenerate but amusing, naive but fun. He knew they made a bizarre threesome. Yet that was the spirit of végzet night, he told himself drily: social interaction free of the constraints of class. His new friends might scratch around in the dirt by day, but Lukács was having the best evening he could remember.
Márkus swigged from his ale and gesticulated. ‘You never told us. What was that thing going on up at the palace? That’s where you came from, isn’t it? You had one of them masks, just like all them others we saw.’
‘A masked ball,’ Krisztina said, her eyes flashing. ‘Very grand.’
‘And very dull.’ Lukács drained his tankard and slammed it down on the table. ‘More drink!’
‘That’s the spirit!’ Márkus shouted. ‘But I’ve got an even better idea. Kris, are you game?’
She met Márkus’s eyes, smirked, and then looked at Lukács. Her eyes held a challenge. ‘I am if he is.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Márkus slapped a hand onto his shoulder. ‘Lukács, old friend. Have you ever tried opium?’
A minute later, they were ushering him through a side door and up a flight of stairs. Down a filthy corridor and through a stained curtain, they emerged into a long room. A few candles offered a low copper light, and the air held an astringency he could not identify. Mattresses lined each wall, some of them occupied by groups of men, some by couples, a few by individuals. Márkus found an empty spot and they collapsed down on to a mattress. Slowly Lukács’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. On the floor in front of them he saw an oil lamp on a tray.
A man came, standing over them. ‘How many?’
‘Three pipes,’ Márkus told him. Then: ‘Well, pay the man, Lukács!’
He handed over coins from his purse and the man brought the pipes. A small white lozenge lay in each bowl. Lukács watched as Márkus lit the oil lamp and warmed his pipe in its flame. He raised the stem to his lips and inhaled the vapours, holding the smoke inside him before gently exhaling and resting back on his elbow.
‘Your turn.’
Lukács copied his friend’s actions, drawing in the vapour and trapping it in his lungs. It was a harsh sensation at first, bitter against the back of his throat. He breathed out and watched Krisztina light her pipe, giggling at something Márkus said to her.
They continued to chat, their conversation just as irreverent as before, and the man brought more pipes. After a while, Lukács felt a strange peace settling over him. A numbing sensation had spread throughout his limbs, and he felt as if his vision had softened. He found himself studying Márkus and Krisztina, thinking how fortunate he had been to bump into them. Warming his pipe, he sucked long and hard on opium smoke.
‘Lukács. Lukács!’ Márkus’s grinning face leered at him. ‘Look at him, Krisztina, look at his eyes! You enjoying yourself, Lukács?’
Laughing, he nodded. His lips felt like jelly. ‘Want another pipe.’
‘Where’s that purse of yours?’
Lukács threw it at him. He realised he was leaning into Krisztina’s torso, his arm brushing her breast. He could not remember how they had become so close, but he was reluctant to move in case she pulled away. From his vantage point, he could see the slopes of her breasts, and could follow her cleavage into the shadows of her bodice. Krisztina’s sexuality, her very immediacy, was beginning to intoxicate him as
powerfully as the opium. He blinked, looked up and discovered that she was watching him. Aghast, he glanced over at Márkus, but his new friend was too busy with the lamp to notice.
They smoked more pipes. The conversation waned. A feeling of utter calm and rightness washed over him. It occurred to him that Márkus did not mind how close Lukács sat to Krisztina, or whether she flirted with him, because the man was confident of his worth, and equally trusting of Lukács’s honour. Both of those insights delighted him. ‘You know, Márkus,’ he said after a moment’s contemplation. ‘You’ve chanced upon the most beautiful woman. I salute you for your impeccable taste.’
Márkus chuckled, raised his pipe. ‘I salute your salute.’
Lukács felt Krisztina staring at him. When Márkus occupied himself once more with the pipe, he dared to meet her eyes. They exchanged a lot with that look. Ironic, he thought, that his végzet could go so badly while here he seemed expert in communicating with his eyes alone.
Taking a risk as Márkus hunched over the oil lamp, Lukács reached up, brushed a blond curl from her face and traced his finger down her cheek.
Krisztina’s mouth dropped open. She shot a glance at Márkus to see if he had noticed. When her eyes returned to Lukács, he saw a flush rising on her cheeks. They exchanged no words, and she did not pull away.
They remained on the mattress, virtually comatose, for another hour, until he remembered the carriage. Pulling the watch from his pocket, he swore. The driver would not wait for him all night, and he could not remember the route back to Szilárd’s district. Rousing his two friends, he told them that he needed to leave. They pulled themselves up, blinking, thanking him in slurred voices.
‘I want to do it again,’ he said. ‘I’m back in Buda in a week. Where can I reach you?’
Márkus found a scrap of paper and scrawled a crude map on to it. ‘Meet us at the place I’ve drawn.’ He grinned, slapping Lukács on the shoulder. ‘And bring that purse!’
The String Diaries Page 9